


don't you dare look out your window (darling, everything's on fire)

by dmgcntrlvrgl, Quantumagic



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, American Sign Language, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bakugou Katsuki Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Bakugou Katsuki Needs a Hug, Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Blood and Violence, Careers (Hunger Games), Childhood Trauma, Conditioning, Deaf Bakugou Katsuki, Deaf Character, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Healing, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Injury Recovery, Kirishima Eijirou Needs a Hug, Kirishima Eijirou is a Good Friend, Kirishima Eijirou is a Ray of Sunshine, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Parental Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Physical Abuse, Post-Games (Hunger Games), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, War, question mark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmgcntrlvrgl/pseuds/dmgcntrlvrgl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantumagic/pseuds/Quantumagic
Summary: Hunger Games AU: Raised as a career since an incident in the coalmines, District Twelve tribute Bakugou Katsuki is tossed into the Hunger Games. He was trained as a deadly weapon, an unstoppable force that was sure to win the Games- that is, until he meets Kirishima Eijirou, the unbreakable tribute from District Two who refuses to go out quietly. There can only be one winner, but neither of them are ready to die just yet.
Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Bakugou Katsuki, Bakugou Katsuki & Hakamata Tsunagu | Best Jeanist, Bakugou Katsuki & Kirishima Eijirou, Bakugou Katsuki & Okuta Kagerou | Giran, Bakugou Katsuki & Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Kirishima Eijirou & Toyomitsu Taishirou | Fat Gum
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. we laid our names to rest along the dotted line

**Author's Note:**

> This is our first shared fic and we're really excited to get it out! Quantumagic ate a sandwich today. We'll try to update this every fortnight (two weeks) or so. We've got a lot of things planned and we hope you'll join us for the journey! If you like angst and lots of it (with an eventual happy ending, of course, maybe), stick around! We'll be updating biweekly if we can, so stay tuned.

Bakugou had never smelled a room this stale. In the cold, air-conditioned space of the training center, it stank of passers-by and people who were gone before they knew it. The stench of fear was heavy in the air, like fog on a cold morning back in District Twelve, but permeating it all was excitement. Anticipation. Bakugou could feel it racing through his lungs, into his blood, and settling in the palms of his hands.

It was like an old friend had come knocking again.

He stared down the wall of sheet metal in front of him. It was intended for him to practice on, and he wasn’t going to waste his opportunity. Bakugou raised his arms so they were parallel with the concrete floor. He took a deep breath in, clenched and unclenched his hands, then exhaled.

Heat raced down to his hands. It exploded forth from his palms to blast straight through the sheet metal like a bullet through paper. In the same breath, Bakugou could no longer smell the stagnation that had been annoying him all morning. There was only the tang of burnt sugar and raw power.

Bakugou let out a disbelieving half-chuckle as he stared at the jagged bent edges of the sheet metal, then down at his hands. He had done all that damage?

He had been trained as a career from the moment he had caused that explosion in the coal mines. Perhaps it was an unconventional way to enter into this life, since it only happened under President Kotaro Shimura’s blessing, but Bakugou saw it as both a blessing and a curse. He had barely been seven when his quirk had manifested and torn the coal mine from the inside out. It had torn his life apart, too, but it had also saved him from all the other things that would have killed him in District 12. Peacekeepers had hauled him up and tossed him right into career training.

But even his handlers had kept him subdued. This? This was a new kind of strength Bakugou had never known rested inside him.

“I need another one,” he called out to the nearest trainer. “One that’s actually a challenge."

On the other side of the room, Kirishima was defending himself from a flurry of projectiles (mostly rocks for his current level).

“All right!” He cheered, pumping a fist into the air after another successful simulation. In a moment of excitement like this, it felt good to use his quirk. Like he had access, finally, to a part of him that had been denied for so long. If he could take anything from this grim situation, facing a damnable future, he took comfort in the power he held. His quirk wasn’t as flashy or marketable as some of the other tributes, though. It was no secret: the tribute to beat in publicity and in the arena was going to be the king of explosions. It wasn’t just Kirishima staring, but all other tributes, too, ears and eyes drawn to the heat and resounding boom from the District 12 tribute.

The others returned to their training after a few moments of gawking, but Kirishima stared in awe just a bit longer. _A lot of these guys were really tough,_ he thought to himself. He’d really have to pick up his game to compete with that kind of raw strength. All he could do right now was admire from afar, and even then, it was weird, wasn’t it? To find beauty in between the fates assigned to them. It was really cool! Being able to use their quirks, after living his whole life under quirk suppression, and for what? To use it in an arena to fight to the death. What a short lived experience. Still, Kirishima admired the strength in his peers, and especially, the one kid from District 12. Tempted to talk, but not quite sure where to approach, Kirishima shifted uneasily on his feet, all he needed was a little nudge- and a hand clapped on his shoulder.

“You see it too right?” Monoma smiled wide at Kirishima, tossing his head back at Bakugou. Kirishima only chuckled as he was pulled along. Monoma was unrelenting, but he was also the first to greet and train with Kirishima. “It’d be dumb not to have him on our team. Come on. Let’s go make friends.”

As another sheet of metal was lowered down from the ceiling, two of the other tributes took it upon themselves to approach Bakugou. He had expected to be watched- he had a strong quirk, after all, and a loud one at that- but hadn’t expected for anyone to actually come up to him. Usually, a glare would have been enough to turn anyone right back around. These two didn’t seem to be intimidated.

Monoma wove his way through the training room, letting go of Kirishima’s arm to clap slowly, drawing attention to himself by the mock awe in his voice.

“Wow! I’d almost say that’s some impressive power, except you have no real control over your quirk, do you? How crude. But that’s to be expected of a backwater career. Ha, it’s too bad!”

“The fuck did you just say?” Bakugou’s eyes narrowed as he looked the other tributes up and down. He hadn’t bothered to talk to anyone the night prior, but they were Monoma and Kirishima, if he remembered correctly from the opening ceremony. Monoma seemed to blend in as well as a peacock in a field of sparrows with that nerve of his.

What Monoma said was true, after all. Bakugou had never been given full reign of his quirk before. He doubted any of the tributes in the room had. It was too much of a risk for everyone involved, even if they weren’t a career.

Kirishima pushed his brow together, not quite expecting that kind of exchange between the two tributes. He shook his head and offered a hand and a smile, his excitement genuine. “I’m Kirishima and this is Monoma. That was a powerful explosion! It was really cool. Did you train as a career?”

“...I did.” He glanced down at the boy’s hand- Kirishima seemed like he was trying to play the mediator- and turned back to Monoma.

Left hanging, Kirishima only smiled, showing off sharp teeth and closing his eyes a moment as his hand returned to rest on his own neck. “Cool, I wonder what that must have been like.” Must have felt good, being able to let loose, even for a little while. Even for a dreary cause like the games. Just accessing that part of himself for a little bit, maybe, would make all this training worthwhile.

“It was fine. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” That was mostly true. It had been hard to keep up with when he had first started, but Bakugou had shaped up quickly and the training became routine to him. That didn’t mean there weren’t nights when he went to bed battered and bruised, though. He had been given a taste of his quirk, but his handlers had tightened his leash in exchange.

Monoma scoffed. “Usually careers hail from the respectable districts,” he said, picking some invisible lint off his sleeve. “I heard they only picked up a stray like you because of some accident,” he said, a growing smirk on his face. “What was that about?”

“What can I say? The Capitol knows potential when they see it. Accident or not, I caught their eye. Your quirk must be real boring if you’re showboating this much, princess.” Bakugou smirked right back. He took a step closer. It wasn’t as though he had kept how he became a career under wraps- Bakugou’s handlers had used it to advertise him before he had even gotten on the train.

“Ahah! Ha!” Monoma laughed, loud and openly, amazed at the bark of this guy. The District 12 tribute probably had a nasty bite too, but Monoma was not one to back down. It would have been a smart move to back away, like a rabbit in the face of a predator, but he held his ground all the same, confident that the fighting would not begin until they hit the arena. At this moment, he was invincible. “You really have a good head on your shoulders! I’m glad! I thought you’d be some dumb donkey from the mining district, like all the others. But you’ve got some spirit! Weird, like a true killer.”

People were staring now, and Bakugou felt his patience wear thin. He didn’t have time to waste talking to these lowlifes- none of them did. They only had three days before they entered the arena, but Monoma was acting like he had all the time in the world, and it annoyed Bakugou to no end, especially since Monoma didn’t have any talent that would warrant so much cockiness. “Ooh, _‘killer’_. What an insult! What the fuck do you think you’re gonna be doing in the games? Knitting?”

Kirishima’s smile fell if only slightly, picking up on the tension, and enjoying none of it. This wasn’t the kind of message or exchange he wanted or expected. Monoma had been a bit weird, but kind to him, so what gives? Why pick on the guy from Twelve like this?

“I took down an entire mine with everyone in it. I made it out without so much as a scratch from my backwater district and I didn’t even have to think about it. You’ve come all the way from your high horse with nothing to show for it. Must have been a real shit year for picking careers in One.”

Kirishima knitted his brow, and chuckled uneasily. How in the world was this guy expecting to make friends with an attitude like that? “I was thinking, maybe we can train together—”

Bakugou scoffed at Kirishima’s hopeful offer. Someone as friendly as him was going to get eaten up alive. “Why? So you can stab me in the back faster once we’re in the arena? I don’t think so.”

Monoma sighed. “I bet all eyes will be on you for your eye-catching quirk, but don’t let it get to your head. You’re so cold and abrasive. That’s not the kind of attitude for a victor- aha- you’re so hopeless-”

“Take it easy, man.” Kirishima piped up, cutting off Monoma and stepping in front of him. He raised a finger to raise a point, speaking sincerely. “My mentor told me that it would be smarter to work together with a small group. Alliances increase our chance of survival from day one.” They were shaky alliances at best, but trying to go off as a lone wolf almost never worked out for tributes. Those trying to play the solo card often got hunted down first.

Careers usually joined up in alliances from the start. Kirishima had been surprised when Monoma welcomed him into his fold, to train together, and even jumped at the idea of talking to Bakugou. But none of this was going exactly how he thought it would.

“Use your head a little,” Monoma mused, touching his fingers to his head in pause. “Why do you think there are alliances every year? Usually, those in an alliance survive right up to the end before they all kill one another. So let’s work together, ha! Ha!”

Kirishima winced. That was the reality of their world, wasn’t it? It was a heavy weight to carry, but if this was all they had, he had to make the most of it. He turned back to Bakugou. “You have a really awesome quirk, bro. It wouldn’t hurt to train together at least, right?”

Bakugou had to disagree- he knew the value of alliances, but he would just end up killing them, anyway, so he didn’t see the point in faking any sort of friendliness, even if he could see Kirishima trying his best to build a bridge. It didn’t matter, not when only one of them could come out of this alive. This was what Bakugou had trained for his entire life. He wasn’t about to throw it away for someone who stood no chance against him.

It wasn’t a life to ogle, being trained as a career only to make for the best entertainment in the games. Lethal. Kirishima could only begin to imagine what that kind of lifestyle looked like, what it looked like on the other side, and to see the world the District 12 boy came from. They might have stepped off different platforms, starting off, but all their paths inevitably led them to here and now. In the end it didn’t matter where they came from, only where they were going. Kirishima was starting to get annoyed with Monoma’s weird attempts at bridging an alliance. Maybe Bakugou didn’t start training from the moment his quirk manifested like the other careers, but the training he obtained had to count for something, right?

Beyond the three days of training allotted to the tributes, Kirishima never had a chance to use his quirk in combat or defense before; he used it only by accident when his quirk first manifested, and on the off chance the quirk suppressants wore off, only to be quickly remedied and suppressed again. Bakugou, like the rest of the careers, handled and knew themselves a little better than he could have ever hoped to imagine, and just when he was starting to get used to his own quirk, it was meant to be taken away again all too soon. He had to find a way to make the most of the little time he had before the arena. He shouldn’t be enjoying himself with what the future held in store, but damn, it was fucking exhilerating, and beyond refreshing, manly, to be himself, to know himself just a little better. If the Capitol was to take everything from him, the least he could walk away with was his pride.

Monoma threw his arms out, open and boastful, wearing a mocking smile on his face. “So narrow-minded, but that’s to be expected. I know it’s hard, but try to think ahead,” he instructed, tapping his own head as he offered a piece of advice. “The arena isn’t where the games begin or end. For most of us, yes, but the victor should know better- I know I do. The games aren’t about killing alone- but,” he sighed with a small smile. “I’m wasting my breath on you, aren’t I?”

Bakugou shoved Monoma back against the wall with the heel of his boot. “What’s your deal? Are you trying to get yourself killed before the games even start? It makes sense that a coward from the cushy luxury district would want to get out before he chips a nail.”

Monoma hit the wall with a pained grunt.

If it had been too quiet before, all eyes were certainly on the three tributes now. Monoma smiled wide, clearly basking in the attention. “So barbaric, can’t even follow a simple set of rules,” he spoke quickly, not all too thrilled at being pinned to the wall, hand gripping the ankle of the offending leg and boot. Kirishima perked up, hands lifting lightly from his sides, almost ready to step in. Almost. In this confrontation, he was the forgotten one. He could walk away. Monoma chuckled at Bakugou. “I can see now that you’d be a pain to work with. You’re powerful, but I was right to think you’d be a hopeless case. What an idiot. Oh well.”

“You’re a waste of breath no matter who you’re speaking to,” Bakugou jeered as he dug his heel into Monoma’s stomach. He didn’t care that the peacekeepers were making their way over or that he was breaking rules- as far as Bakugou was concerned, Monoma had thrown any promise of civility away when he opened his mouth. He pulled his boot away from the wall to stand up straight. He shoved Kirishima to the side.

Normally, the attention turning their way would have filled Kirishima with dread and unease. He was still uncomfortable to an extent, and the all too familiar feeling of being locked in place, trapped in his own body crept back like an old friend, ready to bring him down. He’d been non-confrontational before the reaping. The type to avoid trouble and this, right here, smelled like trouble. Except, facing down a future like the fight to the death instilled in him a sort of borrowed courage. He willed his knees to move, and after a beat, they listened, and he stepped forward, cutting in between Bakugou and Monoma.

“Cut it out, you two! There’s plenty of time to fight in the arena, we shouldn’t be wasting time like this,” he insisted. Monoma, you idiot. Each of them had a chance to win. Each of them were powerful in their own right, as anyone. They were all living on borrowed time; they had to make better use of it. “We don’t have to train together, but we can at least be civil, right?”

“Stay out of this. They say silence is the best reply to a fool, but you’re still running your mouth.” Bakugou jerked his chin at the nearest peacekeeper as if he were daring them to stop him, but he held his hands up to show he wasn’t intending on killing Monoma before the jerk was ripe. “I feel bad for you, really. You’ve got no chance of winning, so you’re doing as much as you can before I fucking obliterate you-”

“Ah, whatever,” Monoma huffed with a smirk, shoving off both Bakugou and Kirishima, pushing particularly hard off Bakugou’s arm. Given his own space now, Monoma shrugged and stared down the metal sheet ahead of them.

“Don’t waste your time on a fool.” Without a second thought, he raised his hand, and sparks crackled on his palm a second before Monoma released a powerful explosion, mirroring Bakugou’s move from minutes before.

“Ahhh,” he beamed, an awe-filled smile on his face. It relaxed in a moment as he returned to his patronizing nature, staring at his hand for a moment before picking his head up. “I think I get it now. You must feel like you hold the world between your hands. It really is an amazing quirk, but mine is better, don’t you think?”

The explosion sent Bakugou stumbling a few steps back. He stared at Monoma in disbelief. That was his quirk, and the smug asshole had just stolen it from him. Bakugou’s hackles rose. He snarled and stepped forward. “You egotistic, ritzy fucking bastard! I’ll fucking kill you right now!”

Monoma waved his hand over his head dismissively. Peacekeepers had begun to crowd in the training room, ready to intervene, but Monoma was eager to leave the scene himself. The rest of the tributes stood around in mild awe and confusion, but no one cared to mutter amongst themselves. The air remained as tight and unyielding as ever between the competitors.

Before the peacekeepers could intervene, Kirishima was in front of Bakugou again. He stood idle, keeping his arms up protectively just as he was moments before Monoma broke off. Only then did he relax and wear a confused look on his face. He sighed, and turned back to Bakugou.

“Sorry about him. I didn’t think he’d try and pick a fight so soon, but damn,” he said with a huff.

Bakugou set off a small explosion intended to scare the other boy. Kirishima didn’t flinch, the side of his arm simply hardening as he put on that stupid, placating smile that reminded Bakugou a little too much of the stray puppies he would often see roaming up to people.

There was no need to stir trouble before the games. Kirishima noted the approaching peacekeepers and stepped in before they could. With his quirk, it was too easy to step in between conflict, an explosive situation if you will, and Kirishima held his ground, taking Bakugou’s temper in stride. With hardened skin, the small explosion didn’t faze him in the slightest. The smile came naturally, softer than his usual beaming grin.

“Ha, my bad. I really didn’t expect him to come off as an asshole. That was totally uncalled for,” Kirishima said with a light laugh. Monoma really was painting a target on his back, or maybe he had some backwards plan. Anyway, they were better off separated—Monoma and Bakugou. Thankfully, Monoma had walked off, looking more than pleased with the encounter.

Bakugou wondered, for a moment, what someone like Kirishima was doing with Monoma. The guy seemed too nice. The arena would chew him up and tear him limb from limb. No, that kindness had to be an act. Maybe Kirishima thought acting nice would score him points with the Capitol, but Bakugou had no such illusions.

“Listen, dumbass. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, faking nice with him, but I’m not gonna do that for you. Complimenting me isn’t going to change the fact that I’m going to kill you right along with everyone else in this room, and I’m going to win.” He plastered on a smile to mock Kirishima’s. “Get out of my face before you start to piss me off, too.”

Kirishima returned to some level of seriousness, determination in his red eyes as he leveled with Bakugou. “I have three days to work out some kind of alliance, and if that’s with Monoma or someone else, then so be it. I’d rather it be with someone I trust, but I know that’s not realistic... I’m going to do all I can to increase my chances at winning, too.”

_I don’t want to die._

Winning meant survival. Winning meant he got to live another day.

“It’s gonna have to be someone else.” Bakugou was still seething as he glared daggers into Monoma’s retreating back. He wouldn’t forget it any time soon. If Monoma was able to copy any quirk he wanted, that made him unpredictable, and being unpredictable made him dangerous. Not that it would matter once the other boy was dead, but it was better to err on the side of caution.

“I wanted to train with you so we can both get stronger,” he said, only partly put down by the rejection, but it was only to be expected. They were meant to be enemies. The Games made it so. Any semblance of friendship between tributes was destined to end in blood. Kirishima knew that. But he didn’t have to play by that rulebook. He could still try and be himself through the next few days of horror he’s meant to endure, and that, only that, would be his only shot at defiance.

“What, you think I’m not strong enough on my own?” He folded his arms across his chest. Bakugou had to admit that it had been a pleasant surprise to see that Kirishima hadn’t even flinched at the explosion going off right by his face.

“I’m tired of you thinking you’re getting any sympathy from me, dumbass.” Bakugou shouldered past the other boy so he was facing the now thicker metal wall. He raised his hands to the ready position and braced his feet. “You’d better go find Monoma before some other tribute decides not to be as nice as me.”

Bakugou didn't have time to stop his attack- even if he had, the explosion would have found Kirishima. He watched as the other boy was knocked backwards into the metal wall and dented it. That burnt-sugar smell was back in the air, but Kirishima's dopey smile never fell away from his face. It seemed to grow wider.

Kirishima took the blast with nothing more than a grunt and a smile, leaving a satisfying dent behind him. Knowing he could take a hit meant for a metal wall, well, that was really cool! Kirishima had to keep a cap on his excitement, a strange, morbid feeling that mingled alongside fear and despair. He was just learning how to use his quirk, test its limits, and it was really exciting; but, time ticked on, counting the seconds until he was meant to enter the arena. The final test of strength. Survival. He couldn't enjoy his quirk to its fullest without remembering the reason behind his being here. He wore a smile anyway. If a smile was the only thing he could keep, he’d wear it till the end.

Subtle or not, Kirishima held onto his character. His will to be better. To live a life without regrets. Kirishima curled his fingers into a ball, and raised a tight fist between them. He could just as easily train with Monoma—it would be easier, actually—since the other tribute currently held a copy of Bakugou’s quirk, but Kirishima was nothing if not determined.

"What the fuck? Are you an idiot?" The answer to that was clearly a resounding 'yes'. Nobody in their right mind would have jumped in front of a blast that large or any blast at all. This kid was either wildly stupid, suicidal, or an unfortunate combination of both. Bakugou stalked up to Kirishima to grab him by the collar.

“You’ve got a great well-rounded quirk, and with my hardening, I’m the perfect person to practice with!” Saying as much made him heat up, uncomfortably warm, but he didn’t stutter. He had to be as tough as he could, inside and out. He smirked, and pointed a thumb at himself. “Aren’t you bored of blowing up metal sheets? Don’t you want to practice with a real moving target? I can take it!”

He clenched both fists and held his arms to his sides in renewed excitement. “We can still train together if you want! It’ll be beneficial for the both of us. Plus, you’re still a career. You’ve had a ton more time to train and get experience with your quirk. I know we’re meant to fight to the death, but that’s still pretty cool.”

He didn’t have much time, but he insisted on making the most of it. “Let’s train!”

If there was one thing Bakugou’s handlers had hammered into his head, it was that no one was ever to be trusted. Letting down his guard was the last thing he would do. If Kirishima wanted to play nice and get himself killed, that wasn’t Bakugou’s problem- it just meant an easier game.

Still, some part of his mind struggled to wrap around why Kirishima would be so dumb. He had to know that he wasn’t going to make it out of the games alive. He had to be smart enough to grasp that alliances could only last so long before they turned deadly. He had to understand that he had no chance.

And yet… the boy had thrown himself right in front of Bakugou’s explosion. Why? To make a statement? To prove himself useful? To show he wasn’t just bluffing? It was reckless. Stupid. Just a little brave, maybe. The stubborn, relentless optimism was almost admirable, but bravery was too often synonymous with stupidity. Bakugou couldn’t jeopardize all the work he had put in just because someone had managed to surprise him a little.

"You're not gonna be my buddy. You're not going to train with me, and you're _not_ going to win. I'm going to win and I'm going to win _alone_."

Just to punctuate his point, Bakugou shoved Kirishima away by his collar. When the boy was barely out of the way, he pressed his hands flat to the metal wall and let out another explosion, warmth pooling between the surface and his hands as the sheet buckled into itself. His ears rung just a little bit, but it would be worth it once they were in the arena.

“Would you fuck _off_ already?”

Bakugou shoved Kirishima away from the metal sheet with a scowl and took up his fighting stance again like the other boy wasn’t even there.

"Alright, have it your way," he muttered softly, relenting for today with his hands half up in surrender. He didn't want to push the guy's buttons, and stumbled to find his footing as he was cast to the side. Bakugou sure was strong. Kirishima picked up his feet, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to leave, waving a hand over his head. "I'm going, I'm going."

There it was again. The ill-fated feeling, lingering in the air like a dark cloud over his head. Win. Win. It was about winning, all the training, the ceremonies, and the game- he wasn't meant to make friends. But he couldn't just stop being kind or supportive like he was raised to be, or act like he's ready to kill his fellow tributes. The thought of killing anyone showered him in a cold feeling. He knew, when push came to shove, he'd probably have to- and he wanted to live. But he'd try his best to stay true to himself till the end. Maybe his way of thinking will get him killed, he thought numbly, walking over to a learning station. Survival skills. Instead of training with Monoma- the guy turned out to be something of a prick- Kirishima messed with the simulators for the rest of the training session, clouded by questions he'd ask his mentor.


	2. we left our date of birth and our history behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Best Jeanist. The tributes have their interviews, and Bakugou does a little introspection before the games officially start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter!! Thank you to everyone who's reading this :)

“I’m keenly aware of the lack of materials in District Twelve but, now, you are in the Capitol. Image is everything here.” Tsunagu Hakamada – Best Jeanist, as his stylist colleagues and the rest of the Capitol knew him – combed through Bakugou’s hair again in an attempt to sort the mess of blonde locks and organize them into something a little more presentable. He frowned behind the collar of his denim jacket as he dipped the comb in gel before giving it another pass over Bakugou’s hair.

Bakugou was not happy, to say the least. The time he was wasting here could easily have been used to train. It wasn’t that he wasn’t confident in his abilities- quite the opposite. Bakugou was sure there was no one as certain to win the Games as he was. Tail Boy from Eight certainly wasn't going to win. Neither was that smug Monoma bastard. Still, Bakugou was anything but complacent; having come from a ‘backwater district’, as Monoma had put it, he knew better than to let himself stagnate. Meeting with Best Jeanist was getting in the way of his plans to win.

“Bullshit. If image was so important, you wouldn’t be dressed head to toe in denim.” He tried to swat Best Jeanist’s hands away, but the lanky man had a surprising amount of strength, pinching Bakugou's wrist and pushing it back down. Bakugou crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. “If you make me look stupid, I’ll splatter you against the wall.”

The stylist had the audacity to let out a muffled laugh.

“Yes, you can be quite destructive. I’ve seen more than enough recordings of what you can do, and I've read all the reports on the coal mine incident.” Bakugou bristled at the mention of the explosion, but Best Jeanist had already set down the comb to go and rifle through the walk-in closet to Bakugou’s left. There were rows upon rows of outfits in there, some still on mannequins, and Bakugou wondered how many kids Best Jeanist had dressed for their funerals. He wondered how many kids Best Jeanist had encouraged with his hopeful eulogies. “But only because that’s how you choose to behave.”

“That’s the only way to use my quirk, dumbass.” Bakugou tugged at a hardened piece of gelled-up hair between his fingers. Most of the adults in the Capitol didn’t have anything to say that he was even remotely interested in. He wanted to get into the games, win, and go back to his parents. That was as simple as it could get. Why did they have to make it so complicated? “News flash, it’s a little difficult to do anything else with nitroglycerin constantly detonating in my hands. I don’t have a choice.”

His voice suddenly much more somber than Bakugou had heard it all night, Best Jeanist spoke up as he exited the closet with an outfit draped over his arms. “Who said I was speaking about your quirk?” The stylist laid the outfit out onto the table in front of Bakugou. “You.  _ You _ can be destructive. But you always have a choice.”

Bakugou scoffed. He didn’t retort, though, and glared at the costume. If he tried hard enough, his quirk might telepathically cross the space between him and the table and rip the costume to shreds. “I’m not wearing that shit. I’m not going on stage looking like I was born in the Capitol with all you shitheads. I was born in District Twelve. Why can’t I fucking look like it?”

It was a terrible deflection- Best Jeanist seemed to pick up on it, unwilling to drop the subject. He nudged Bakugou up out of the chair and toward the outfit. The man turned around to give him some semblance of privacy, and Bakugou got dressed. He muttered curses under his breath the whole time, closing the buttons much harder than he needed to.

“I’ve done this job for almost seventeen years. I know how you careers are raised. I don’t like to think that anyone is ever too far gone for me to advise, but some of you…”

Best Jeanist shook his head. He had seen too many children pass through this room, hellbent on the philosophy that it was either them or the rest of the world. Their thinking was so black and white, sometimes, that Best Jeanist didn’t know how to even try to start pulling them out, not to mention he never had much time. He couldn't blame them. Maybe Bakugou, who had had the benefit of being pulled into that life of violence later, would be a little more lucky.

“Your quirk is destructive- chaotic, even... You, Bakugou Katsuki, are not. You don’t have to be, anyway. When it comes to what you want to do or how you want to live, you always have a choice.” It seemed so incredibly impertinent considering the circumstances, but it was all Best Jeanist could do. It would have to be enough. “Chaos such as these games can tempt people and draw out the cruelty that lies sleeping at their core- I’d like to believe you will be a victor, but you don’t need to be cruel.”

“... Whatever, old-timer. Of course I'm going to win.” It wasn’t like he enjoyed the prospect of having to kill the other tributes. He wanted to live. He wanted to win.

Bakugou finished buttoning his collar. His boots were a tanned brown, shiny and stiff like they had never been worn before- they probably hadn’t- and Bakugou could already imagine the blisters that would come from just wearing them for the night. True to Best Jeanist’s signature, he was wearing jeans. Tucked into them was a waist-length mantle with slits for his arms that was the color of burnt citrus. A large bronze brooch in the shape of the sun fixed a pair of chains to Bakugou’s shoulder. There was a blood red tie and black vest to pull it all together, and Bakugou slipped on the leather gloves that lay on the table.

He stared at himself in the mirror. Bakugou almost didn’t recognize himself. His hair was plastered so flat he was convinced he could see the outline of his skull, and the outfit was so much flashier than anything he had worn before. He scowled, and turned to Best Jeanist with his arms spread to either side.

“Happy?”

“Quite, though you’ll do yourself a favor by smiling for the cameras.” Best Jeanist stepped forward to smooth out the fabric on Bakugou’s shoulders with a small smile that was hidden behind his collar. “You’re going to be wonderful.”

* * *

"Neither of us can help you once you're out on that stage but, remember, it wouldn't kill you to get people on your side." The large blond man behind Bakugou – quite literally as the guy was three times his height and much, much more muscly – had that same smile Bakugou had seen him wear to every interview he had had in the Capitol. It was annoying, to say the least.

Bakugou couldn't help but admire the man, though. He might be a show off, but his strength was no joke. All Might had led the Capitol's troops to victory against the rebels that had threatened an insurrection long before Bakugou was even born. He had guided Panem into this era of peace that everyone was enjoying. Even if he was a washed up sideshow, he had a track record of victories a mile wide.

It also meant that Bakugou couldn't help being grateful that the man was at least partially responsible for his having to fight other children to the death. Bakugou had been training for the Arena ever since he had blown up that mine by accident at ten years old. He knew his quirk was powerful, and he knew it was an honor to represent his district in the Games. Killing wasn't the part he enjoyed- who in their right mind would? It was the fighting, being able to prove he was the best of the best despite his late start, that really gave Bakugou the rush of adrenaline he craved.

"I don't need you to tell me how to win," Bakugou sneered. He was in the wings of the stage, waiting for Present Mic to finish interviewing the current tribute (some boy with a tail whose name he hadn't bothered to listen for). After a moment, Tail Boy made his way off the stage. There were so many people still between Bakugou and his interview- couldn’t they just get it over with?

Finally, it was Bakugou’s turn to make his mark on the capitol. He stepped out into the limelight with a nasty glare shot toward the crowd.  


Before he sat down, Bakugou raised both hands to either side of his head. He smiled. A small explosion went off, and all of Best Jeanists' hard work on his hair disappeared. His ears rung. They always did after he used his quirk, but Bakugou had learned to ignore it a long time ago.

“Wow!” Present Mic screeched as Bakugou’s explosion went off and he slouched into his seat. Bakugou leaned away from him, trying not to grimace. Best Jeanist was in the front row of the audience, and he smirked right at the man as Mic continued to preen his own feathers. “What an amazing quirk! Styled by Best Jeanist, trained by Eraserhead and All Might- no doubt, you’ll be some mighty competition for all these other tributes! Even President Shimura must have his eye on you.”

Mic swung his arm in a grand gesture toward the tributes standing behind him on stage. Bakugou grit his teeth.

“Tell us, tell us: surely, there’s someone waiting for you at home. A lover, perhaps? Someone like you can’t be lacking in devoted fans!”

Bakugou thought he had been putting on a good poker face so far (though he would never admit that Best Jeanist had affected his actions at all), but Present Mic was really testing him. He was twelve. Was the announcer seriously expecting him to answer inquiries about a love life he didn’t have? The pompous peacock probably couldn’t see past the point of his own nose.

“You’re so young, too. One of the most powerful we’ve had in years- a perfect training score of twelve for the twelve year old tribute from twelve!”

Bakugou leaned forward with his elbows propped on his knees. He stared straight at the camera rather than his interviewer. He flashed his teeth.

“I’m only going to say one thing: I’m gonna win.”

* * *

“Remember, Kirishima. You go out there, and you show ‘em what you’re made of! Those Capitol chumps are sure to love you.” 

In the privacy of their own floor on the second level, one floor per their district, Taishiro Toyomitsu spoke and ate freely, shoving one mouthful after each token piece of advice directed to Kirishima. 

Having trained as a career, the other tribute from his district decided to retire early, entirely unimpressed with any advice their mentor could possibly give them, and turned her attention to training. Kirishima hadn’t had the luxury of being raised as a career, but as a tribute from District Two, he had an image to maintain. Still, he felt out of place, as a tribute from one of the apparent respected districts. Without formal training, he was just another face thrown into the Games. Taishiro was the one who believed in him, and said he had a great face; the face of a victor. Kirishima let himself believe the guy, the one person who believed in him more than anything. The one person who might actually help him get out of this alive. 

The dining room was empty apart from the two of them, with one large table filled with plates and plates of foods from across the country. Kirishima had never seen so much food in his life, and half of it was already eaten by his mentor. Taishiro poked his chopsticks back over the tray of delicacies, deciding which fried food to eat next. “And you have to eat as much as you can before the games, trust me. That’s how I won.” 

Kirishima chuckled, selecting a takoyaki with his own chopsticks. “But that’s because of your quirk, right?” 

“Oh yeah! But it helps to pack up on the fat, even for you, kid,” he says as he happily munches on another ball of takoyaki. “Enjoy the Capitol food while you can, because when you’re in the arena, you’re all on your own. You might not eat for days or even weeks. Make sure to stock up on the survival skills during training! Your stats are looking good on the physical end. If I had to compare you to a weapon though, you’re acting more like a shield than a spear. You have great defense, and that’ll save you a bunch. Ya just need something to kick up your performance.” 

“Right,” Kirishima said, straightening in his chair with an air of determination only to deflate and tilt his head as curiosity bloomed on his face, a soft look for someone with sharp features, which could very easily turn even more jagged just by activating his quirk. “Uh. . .what do you mean by performance?” 

“You wanna make an impression!” And as he said so, Kirishima was sure he'd never seen Taishiro without a smile or some kind of positive energy. “Take me for example, I do what I love and people love to see that. So when you get up on that stage for the interviews, show them everything you got! The Capitol swallows up so much falsehood, from their appearance to their flowers, a touch of honesty is refreshing. Be yourself. Be your honest self.” 

“Yes, sir!” Kirishima beamed, taking his mentor’s words to heart. 

“Public support helps more than you’d think, especially once you’re all alone in the arena. You gotta think:  _ sponsors _ . They can really save you in a pinch with a life-saving gift. Now, how’s your search for alliances going?” 

Kirishima told him about Monoma, and the consequential confrontation with District Twelve’s tribute, Bakugou. Taishiro hummed, and offered his two bits. 

“That District One career is a slippery one, so be careful. I don’t know too much about District Twelve’s tribute, but that’s the kind of flashy I’m talking about. His quirk draws the right kind of attention.” Taishiro kept to himself the knowledge that one of the Capitol’s most beloved stylists was working with the District Twelve tribtue this year. No doubt he’ll pull something up his denim sleeve to make the tribute pop out even more, but Taishiro had faith in Kirishima’s upcoming design. 

Before the interviews, Kirishima sat with that information. Everything Taishiro had said, or most of it. Kirishima tried his best to keep it all in his head, but some details did slip through. Taishiro told him not to worry about it. All he had to do right now was be true to himself up on that stage. With District One set to start, Monoma brushed past him and made a show of noticing him. 

“Aha! What a look!” His voice was just loud enough to turn heads, but not so to go beyond the curtains hiding them from the stage. “Bold and sharp, my friend. You look like a different person, ha,” he said with a faint smile before taking a light bow and straightened, showing off his costume, which reminded Kirishima of some kind of outdated vampire. “No doubt less classy than my costume, but not everyone can pull off a suit.” 

The last comment he directed with a turn of his eyes, a sideways glance at Bakugou. Monoma laughed, and stepped from the wings onto the stage for his interview. Kirishima knitted his brow together, not quite certain what the heck that guy’s problem was. But Kirishima did change his look overnight. With the help of his stylist, Kirishima’s hair had gone from black to crimson, and the costume was a velvet suit to match. 

As he waited in the wings, Kirishima noted the flowers, and reached out to touch them. Fake, like everything else set up for the games. It was all just one big show, he reminded himself. Three minutes per interview. 

As the District One interviews ended, and Kirishima heard them call for Eijiro Kirishima next, he stepped out onto the stage, feeling the heat of the stage lights on his skin and the even more burning gaze of the audience. 

He focused on the host. Hizashi Yamada, otherwise known as Present Mic here at the Capitol, had his blond hair gelled up in one huge spike as he always did during the interviews. Kirishima remembered watching him on TV as a boy. Seeing the host in person, Kirishima could better make out the details of the makeup on his powdered face. He was dreaming one moment, and the next, Kirishima was shaking hands, and taking a seat across from Present Mic. Breathe. He was made for this! 

Kirishima started strong, reeling in the audience with his contagious smile and unbreakable spirit. By the end of it, his skin was buzzing with excitement, and he could tell the audience was too. The three minutes lasted an eternity and ended all too soon. He returned to the wings of the stage, joining the train of tributes, mentors, and stylists backstage. He watched each subsequent interview with riled up anticipation. 

The District Eight tribute, another career, was the type not interested in wasting time buttering up the audience, but Present Mic had hit all the right keys (as expected by the Capitol’s host) and got the ice-quirk user to melt, and talk, with Geten boasting about his lifelong training and power which would win him the games. Since small quirk demonstrations were allowed, Geten even sent small flakes of ice out to the audience, a taste of snow and that sent the crowd wild. Kirishima’s quirk had been less flashy, but his attitude and the red in his crimson-colored costume and hair picked up the slack. Kirishima had thought about approaching Geten for an alliance, but the guy made it pretty clear he was a lone wolf. Damn. The careers this year were packed with solitary confidence, and speaking of, Kirishima watched with intrigue as the last career stepped up to the stage. In seconds, Bakugou’s hair returned to the explosive mess it was meant to be, and Kirishima shared a smile with the rest of the audience as they laughed at the display.

* * *

The time between that interview and the start of the games passed in a blur. Bakugou had always been one to sleep early, but he couldn’t that night. He found himself sitting down in front of one of the many windows in his room to look out at the sprawling Capitol. So this was the beating heart of Panem, huh? It was… a lot less impressive than Bakugou had expected. Sure, there wasn’t much to see in district twelve, but the masses of color and light that he never got to see back home hurt his eyes more than they excited him.

Besides, how could he enjoy it knowing what was at stake? Bakugou knew he could be impulsive, but he was no fool. He had heard enough of Best Jeanist's tired sighs and seen enough of his weary stares to know that the game went beyond the arena. Bakugou either kept moving across the chessboard once he won or he would get swept up by all the other pawns. There was no "end" to this game that had started when the mines exploded.

He had really gotten himself into this situation. If he hadn't picked that fight and let his food be stolen, Bakugou might still be sleeping in his parents' home. If he hadn't been so damn stubborn about what was his and the honesty the other miner had so clearly been lacking, Bakugou wouldn't be here, where honesty was in just as short a supply. His quirk would never have manifested itself and killed all those people as the coal mines turned into a tinderbox. If he had given up then and there, he would never have caught the Capitol's eye and been thrown into training.

It was too late now. What had wistfulness ever accomplished for anyone? It had certainly never given Bakugou anything but headaches to consider what might have been.  No, the best course of action, the _only_ course of action was to make the most of a shitty situation. He had been dealt a hand full of trash- Bakugou didn't care. Luck had never been on his side, and luck could go fuck itself. He is more than capable of winning on his own.

After a few more moments of staring through the glass, Bakugou went to lay down in bed. No matter how tightly he shut his eyes, how many times he rolled over in the plush bed, how many deep breaths he forced himself to take, Bakugou was awake until the moment the sun shone through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback/ thoughts you have would be greatly appreciated <3 The games will officially commence in the next chapter!


	3. we were full of life- we could barely hold it in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Games officially start! Bakugou and Kirishima face the cornucopia, and they don't have time to do anything but run headfirst into the bloodbath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, everyone! Hope you all had a restful holidays and got to eat lots of good food.

With a raised hand and a smile, Kirishima bade his mentor a good night after the mighty feast of a dinner they had shared. Kirishima smiled, and smiled, and smiled. To the public, he smiled and radiated an unbreakable spirit. To his stylist, he smiled and admired his new look. To his mentor, he smiled and built up confidence. But the smiles ceased and vanished the moment he crossed the threshold into his own room away from the rest of the world, away from the lights and cameras, and away from the ever watching public. Kirishima stepped into the shadows of his own room without a smile, and soon, the ever creeping feeling of despair curled in his chest, heavy and painful, a rock he could not remove no matter how much he smiled throughout the day. It stayed.

Alone with his own thoughts, the rock weighed the heaviest, pulling Kirishima to his knees, and pulled tears into his eyes. Tomorrow was it. The Games. There would be no tears tomorrow, not in his fight for survival. So they fell freely now, fat, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. All the tears he held back from the start since hearing his name called at the reaping and watching his mother break into silent sobs. Kirishima had smiled even then to comfort her, but it all came back now, too soon and too sudden. He was alone, and tomorrow, he might die. His lip trembled, and hot tears pricked his eyes until he blinked, falling in small, silent drops on the ground. The streaks felt awful against his face, and he quickly raised a hand to rub them away, pushing his palm into his cheek, and biting back a quiet cry.

“Stop it,” he growled at himself, sharp teeth baring. Crying helped no one. Least of all him. He needed to be on his best game, physically and mentally to ensure his best chances of survival in the arena. Knowing this, the rock in his chest fell to his stomach, but it did not leave him. Even as he crawled into bed, taking deep breaths, comfort was a luxury he could not afford even in the wealthiest city in the country. He wasn’t born to kill, but the Capitol wanted him to. If he didn’t, he would surely die. Hunt, or be hunted. That was the game, wasn’t it?

The night left him tossing and turning. He didn’t even realize when he had fallen asleep, only that it was morning and he blinked to some degree of awakening.

* * *

Bakugou hadn’t been expecting to talk to Best Jeanist at all before going into the games. He had expected to be loaded into the tube and sent straight into the arena, but his stylist seemed to have other plans. The man was sitting against the same metal table they had used to clean Bakugou off when he had first arrived here. Bakugou scowled. It was bad enough that he had to wear this stupid uniform. The cargo pants were loose and light colored, and his black tank top was just a little too small.

“The fuck? What are you going to do, dress me up so nicely no one wants to kill me?”

“No,” Best Jeanist sighed, already exasperated with the young man’s attitude. He would have thought that being so close to the start of the games would have helped Bakugou mellow out, but it seemed to have him more tightly wound than ever. “I am simply here to advise you before you’re sent out on your own.”

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Too bad.” He grabbed Bakugou’s hand and slipped a silver ring onto his middle finger. It was nothing special; a simple, thin band with a two-faced figure set in the middle. “I don’t want to hear whatever retort you’ve undoubtedly already thought up. This is Janus, the Roman god of choices. Doorways, beginnings, and endings. Whatever happens out there, if you must forget everything else I have ever said to you, remember this one thing: you *always* have a choice.”

“What’s your game? Why do you care so much? My quirk’s powerful enough to win the games ten times over.” Bakugou snatched his hands away and twisted the ring around a few times. “I don’t need your pity.”

“You still think we’re talking about your quirk, don’t you?” Best Jeanist shook his head, and there was a look on his face that Bakugou couldn’t quite decipher. It was somewhere between annoyance and concern, and Bakugou didn’t know which one was worse. “You are more than your quirk. Come back to me when you win and we can talk then.”

Bakugou’s mouth felt dry. He had, indeed, had an insult ready, but it died on the tip of his tongue as he saw just how serious the stylist was. If Best Jeanist was so certain Bakugou was going to win, then there was no way the man was doubting Bakugou’s abilities. He glanced between the ring, Best Jeanist’s face, and the ring again. 

His permanent scowl was back with a vengeance, though he didn’t say anything more.

_”Ten seconds remaining.”_

Bakugou pushed Best Jeanist’s hand away and stepped into the tube. He, who had never once let anyone break away from his glare, refused to look the stylist in the eye as he was raised into the arena.

* * *

In his own small room, Kirishima closed his eyes and could be mistaken for a young man mediating moments before the games. The tube that would take him to the arena was patched to his right. He breathed, and opened his eyes with renewed vigor, bright crimson and alive. “I’m ready,” he said to himself with a sharp grin. Whether he truly was or not could be left up for debate, but he had to believe in himself more than anyone. He stepped into the tube and the glass shut him in. The pedestal rose and lifted him into the arena where he was met with harsh sunlight.

Bakugou squinted as that same sunlight flooded his own vision. He registered, first, that it was sweltering hot. As his eyes adjusted, Bakugou’s head swiveled to take inventory of his surroundings. Kirishima, on the platform across from him, did the same. He raised a hand to shield his gaze from the bright light, squinting and blinking until he could make out the field. 

Blurred silhouettes sharpened into figures and figures into people, the other tributes, standing on their own pedestals in a circle around the cornucopia. Everything seemed to be washed in a shade of orange. Orange, chalky, and hot. There were rocky walls that touched the sky. The air rose from the dusty ground in waves as it baked, and Bakugou was already breaking out in sweat. There were tributes to either side of him and a cornucopia in the middle made of the same rust-colored stone as everything else around them. Kirishima spotted the thin layer of haze blotting the horizon, and a narrow horizon at that. He couldn’t see much past the high canyon walls that surrounded them, too high to see the tops of, but there were openings, branching in separate directions all leading away from the Cornucopia. Kirishima spotted the boy with the tail from Eight, and his gaze kept jumping from tribute to tribute till he spotted Bakugou. 

_Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight._

Out of all the tributes, he would be the one to watch out for in a blood bath. Kirishima remembered his explosive power. With his hardening quirk, he had a chance to survive the clash at the center and he desperately needed the supplies. Food. Resources. Anything the Capitol was willing to provide. 

_Twenty_. 

Kirishima glanced to his right, finding Monoma next to him. For a change, the guy looked serious with laser focus on the goods at the center. Realizing he was being watched, Monoma glanced up and his eyes met with Kirishima’s. They shared a mutual understanding as the counter ticked closer to zero. 

_Ten seconds._

Kirishima leaned forward, readying himself for a run. Bakugou bent his knees, just as poised to pounce as the other tributes. The count fell past five, and Kirishima felt sweat drip from his forehead. The arena held its breath as the final seconds of dead air dissipated.

The buzzer sounded, and all the tributes shot off from the starting platform. 

Kirishima sprung into action. Instead of making an immediate dash for the cornucopia, Kirishima darted right, and Monoma met him between their platforms, slapping their hands in a swift high-five before turning to the cornucopia. Monoma wasn’t an ideal partner, and would more than likely stab him in the back sooner rather than later, but an early alliance was just what he needed to survive the bloodbath and maybe the first night in the arena. With a touch, Monoma copied Kirishima’s hardening quirk and together they rushed into the center, carving their way through the mess of tributes, those who were bloodthirsty and feeble alike, scrambling for a pack, a chance of survival. 

A couple of the tributes were immediately running away from the Cornucopia, Bakugou noted as he took inventory of where everyone was, Tail Boy included. Ojiro, if Bakugou remembered his name right, hadn’t even stopped to grab a pack of supplies- the timer had hit zero, and he had taken off in the farthest direction from the bloodbath. Geten, the ice-wielding gremlin who had been so sure of himself in the interviews, did the same. It made sense- there was no ice for the guy manipulate, which made him all too vulnerable to attacks. It seemed District Eight had raised a bunch of cowards.

“Let’s go!” Kirishima yelled above the scramble, snatching up a pack and maintaining his hardening. 

“Way ahead of you!” Monoma called back to him with a fleeting grin, quickly focusing again as a tribute ambushed him with razor leaves. The leaves never met their target, crashing into a wall of solid air instead. The tribute Kosei Tsuburaba had run up and used his quirk to protect Monoma. 

_Another potential ally_ , Kirishima thought as the three of them gathered their packs and started away from the cornucopia, protected by hardening and solid air. _Monoma really thought of uniting himself with the best defensive quirks to survive the bloodbath,_ Kirishima thought to himself as he headed for one of the tall exits out of the center, but Monoma grabbed him by the shoulder before they got too far. 

“Hold on,” he insisted, pausing for a breath and shooting a look back. “I want to grab a couple more quirks, especially his--”

Kirishima panted, still catching his breath, but looked over to where Monoma directed their attention. Right to Bakugou. “Idiot!” Kirishima growled. “You’ll get killed. We got the packs so let’s go!”

Monoma laughed, brow knitting in pity. “We have defense, but if I grab his quirk we will have the perfect offense, too.”

Kirishima grabbed Monoma by the collar of his shirt, and stared down the career. “For what? Ten minutes? Not. Worth. It.”

Kirishima let go of Monoma and started a light jog that quickly broke into a run out of the center and right into one of the narrow valleys carved out by the high walls. Tsuburaba joined him, and with a defeated sigh, Monoma soon followed. The three of them left behind the height of the bloodbath, not sticking around long enough to see its aftermath. 

Bakugou had no intention of running away. He knew exactly what he had to do. He had trained so hard to get here, after all. The dry gravel and loose dirt crunched underfoot as he raced into the Cornucopia, and he refused to stay on the defensive. Bakugou slung a backpack over his shoulder, then holstered a dagger at his side. Some faceless tribute ran up to him with a machete in his hand. His whole arm was covered in bright green scales.

They wasn’t enough to protect him.

Bakugou put his hands out in front of him and let an explosion rocket out of his body. There was no blood- just a sickening sizzling sound in the silence afterwards, and a hole in the middle of the other boy’s chest. The tribute’s lifeless body slumped to the ground. Bakugou took a deep breath, then let out a guttural scream.

“Come and get me, fuckers!”

Bakugou didn’t count how many tributes he blew through as he ransacked the Cornucopia for as many supplies as he could get his hands on. He didn’t have the time. He was no idiot, though- Bakugou knew he couldn’t just stuff his pockets full to the point of not being able to move. He just picked up as much as he could carry and then he made a break for it.

There were three paths just behind the Cornucopia that Bakugou could take, though they all looked identical. Monoma had taken the far left one, right? Bakugou didn’t exactly want to be chasing the guy, but he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the slimy fucker again.

Left, it was.

From the first path, countless more branched out like a spider’s web. Bakugou started to get confused because it was so much like the twists and turns of the coal mines back in Twelve, but that gave him an idea. The miners had an age-old trick they would use if they ever got lost underground. They would keep one hand on the left wall and walk until they found the surface again. Granted, this wasn’t the coal mines, but it couldn’t hurt to use what he knew.

He ran for what felt like hours until the sounds of the fighting faded, but his ears were still ringing as he sat down under a small outcropping of rock. That always happened when he used his quirk too much. He had learned to ignore it. His hands were instantly coated in the chalky dirt, but Bakugou pushed the discomfort aside. It was just like in the mines when coal would cover him from head to toe. If Bakugou imagined hard enough, the feeling was almost comforting. But he didn’t have time to sit and daydream. No, he needed to focus and sort through his supplies.

He dumped out the contents of the backpack and emptied his pockets. He had managed to pick up two knives; the backpack contained one thin black sleeping bag with reflective lining, a pack of crackers, a pack of dried beef strips, a bottle of iodine, a box of wooden matches, a compass, binoculars, and a black water bottle.

It was a little light, so Bakugou shook the bottle. Empty. He shoved all the supplies back into his backpack with a huff.

That was going to be a bit of a problem. The arena was dry as hell, and there was no water in sight. Even if there was, Bakugou didn’t see any way to get to it. He had three days before dehydration got him, so that would have to be his top priority. He racked his brain trying to remember if he had missed some water back at the Cornucopia. _As annoying as doubling back would be, it's better than dying of thirst_ , Bakugou thought.

It had to be the better choice to just keep walking away from the Cornucopia. There was too much risk that he would waste time if there wasn’t, in fact, any water at the center of the Arena. He only had three days before dehydration did him in, so every minute would count.

Bakugou wiped his brow a little too late to stop it from dripping into his eye and looked up at the sky for a moment. He didn’t trust the gamemakers to be consistent- even though the Sun was clearly in the noon position right above his head, it would be stupid to put it past the gamemakers to mess with the day-night cycle to keep the tributes disoriented. What he did trust, though, was his internal clock. Working in the mines since he was old enough to walk had taught him a few neat tricks, not the least of which was to tell time without having to look at a clock. On top of that, his training schedule had been consistent enough that he could tell about what time it was based on how his body felt with ten minutes of give or take.

It was noon, just like the Sun in the sky and Bakugou’s body told him.

He sat back against the stone wall and shut his eyes, some of the orange chalk dusting off onto his shoulders. Travelling at noon in an overexposed place like this could only lead to him getting baked alive. It would be smarter to travel at night when the ground wasn’t burning through the soles of his shoes. Bakugou tucked his knees against his chest and let out a slow, measured breath.

Above him, a cannon fired.

“One... two... three,” Bakugou murmured under his breath as the cannons kept firing. There was another, then another, and another still. He twisted the ring on his finger. There had been a total of fourteen cannons. Bakugou gripped his arm hard enough for it to bruise. He had killed six of those fourteen kids. He had killed six people, and he hadn’t even known their names. He hadn’t even taken the time to notice half their faces.

His inhale felt like forcing sandpaper down his lungs.

Now was not that time to grow a conscience. Bakugou was a weapon, and he would win.

The surviving tributes would be too busy running from one another and looking for shelter to hunt for him until nightfall, anyway. Bakugou would have to get some rest while he could. He wanted to use the reflective blanket to keep the heat off while he slept, but the double edge of a heat-reflecting blanket was that it reflected light, too, and anyone who wasn’t blind would be able to see it a mile out. Bakugou opted to just put the whole backpack over his head instead. The exhaustion didn’t make it hard to doze off- he leaned his head forward against his elbows and, a few deep breaths later, he was out like a light.

It wasn’t a restful sleep. Hands were gripping him from everywhere, reaching out of the murk of his dreamscape to drag him down into the dark. Bakugou smacked them away to no avail. There were always more reaching out to grab him. Faceless tributes swiped at him with their unnaturally bent arms and gnashed their bloody teeth until one got close enough to bite.

* * *

 _How pathetic_ , Chisaki thought as he looked down at the holographic view of the arena before him, gloved hands folded behind his back. Each of the tributes was a small dot on the board. Chisaki wondered how long they would last. Only a few of the tributes had decided to team up and the rest had scattered themselves to the winds. 

He could fix that later.

“The tribute from Twelve- Bakugou Katsuki- he’s figured it out, hasn’t he?” Chisaki shifted his gaze from the map to a screen where the whole room of gamemakers could see the tribute following the left canyon wall with one hand. 

It was his first year as Head Gamemaker, but Chisaki was ready to call this arena his magnum opus. He had wanted to make something truly special for his debut, so he had created a labyrinth of winding paths in the shape of a Fibonacci spiral, each offshoot of the maze branching further out than the one before it. The whole thing was a bit like watching mice in a lab; the tributes were scrambling in every direction, trying to stay alive, and Chisaki had the power to decide their fates. They weren’t even aware they were getting themselves ever more tangled in the web he was weaving.

Bakugou, however, seemed to have at least figured out part of the game.

Chisaki could work with a challenge. What was an experiment without a little trial and error?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more, and let us know what you think.


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